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we moved to leave and, as already quietly arranged, I mimed to Patrick that I would visit the ladies’ loo which was signposted to somewhere at the back. He mimed back that he would wait for me outside and went out.
    There was a maze of little corridors, doorways and staircases, both ascending and descending, at the rear of the premises and, having done a virtually tiptoed recce, it was easy to take a ‘wrong’ turning and enter a room with a very faded
Staff Only
notice on the door.
    â€˜Oh, sorry,’ I hastened to say, having caused the Chinese woman to start violently.
    She was sitting behind a cheaply made, rickety-looking desk on which were spread various papers, invoices, perhaps. Resting on top of them, like an incongruous paperweight, was a handgun. I braced myself as the woman snatched it up but she opened a drawer and thrust it within, out of sight.
    â€˜Would you care to talk to me?’ I enquired.
    â€˜You’ll arrest me.’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜I don’t trust you.’
    â€˜It looks as though you don’t trust anyone.’
    â€˜I don’t. You can’t now.’
    â€˜Look, I didn’t see the gun.’
    We gazed at one another for a few more moments and then she said, ‘I won’t talk while that man you’re with is here. He’s not … kind.’
    I longed to tell her that sometimes he can actually be downright soppy. ‘No, all right,’ I agreed. ‘But I shall have to tell him where I am or he might come looking for me.’
    â€˜I would prefer you to phone him from here.’
    â€˜Of course.’
    â€˜Come in and shut the door.’
    This I did, taking my time to draw up a chair, seat myself and find my mobile in order to take in my surroundings. The room was very scruffy; peeling paint, cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling, most of the floor space taken up with piles of boxes of what appeared to be coffee and stacks of disposables such as paper napkins and kitchen and toilet rolls.
    The same could not be said for the occupant of the room. As I had already noted she was neatly dressed in a crimson blouse and black silk trousers and was, I supposed, around thirty-five years of age, and petite, probably only just reaching my shoulder – I am five feet eight. Her hair was dark as one might expect but fine, swept up into a bun on top of her head. Her eyes were brown and, right now, fixed on me in a hard and suspicious stare.
    I rang Patrick, who said that he would hang around. Then I said, ‘Are you the owner of this business?’
    She nodded. ‘There’s just me now. My husband is dead.’
    â€˜I’m sorry.’
    â€˜Don’t be. He was rotten right through.’
    I decided not to probe about that just yet and asked her if it was all right for me to take a few notes.
    She nodded again.
    â€˜Do you mind telling me your name?’
    â€˜The other police asked that. It is Sulyn Li Grant. Li was my mother’s family name in China. My father was American, Spencer Horatio Grant the Third.’ The last information was uttered with pride.
    â€˜You didn’t take your husband’s name?’
    â€˜No.’
    I decided that the reasons behind that were none of my business. ‘Do you think the shooting was carried out by Chinese criminals?’
    She shook her head. ‘No.’
    â€˜You seem very sure about that. Could it have been anything to do with a Triads group?’
    â€˜No. I have nothing to fear from them.’ Then, obviously feeling that some explanation was required, she added, ‘I am protected.’
    Again, I felt I should not pursue the matter. ‘Who, then?’
    Sulyn shrugged.
    â€˜Something to do with your husband?’
    â€˜I don’t
have
to answer your questions,’ she answered defiantly.
    â€˜No, but it might save you from being bothered by the police again.’
    She thought about it. ‘OK.’
    â€˜You said just now